The Sixth Year
by CauscadaLover
Summary: SLASH... HPDM, and also HGRW... RonHermione are caught up in their relationship, as Harry struggles with the guilt of Sirius's death...
1. One!

**CHAPTER ONE**

Harry James Potter opened his eyes.

He was leaning against the compartment window, and had been resting for a while— he had neglected to get as much sleep as he should have the previous night. It hadn't helped that as his Uncle drove him to the Platform Nine and Three Quarters, his cousin had mocked him about his nightmares. Harry had been only just able to control his fury as Dudley had taunted him, recalling how Harry had often screamed in the middle of the night, reliving the time in the Department of Mysteries where his godfather had died.

It was too much for him. It had weighed him down for so long, all summer, even— Harry felt he could not live as long as the fact that he had caused the death of Sirius remained with him.

Harry ran his fingers through his dark hair and sat up straighter, glancing around the compartment. Hermione sat beside him, Ron on her other side, and then Luna. Across from them was Neville, Dean, and Ginny. Hermione had not yet come.

"'Mione won't be able to sit with us when she comes," Ron admitted, in a rather worried tone. "I hope she doesn't get stuck with someone awful..."

Dean scowled at two passing first years. "The only reason there's no space anywhere is because there's so many first years this year," Seamus commented, as though reading Dean's mind.

"There weren't _half_ as many when we were first years," Dean agreed.

Just then, Hermione burst through the glass sliding door of the compartment, looking rather flustered. "I just made it in time, I was almost late—"She panted, her dark curls tumbling across her face in untamed disarray. Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the compartment.

"There's no room left," Ron stated the obvious.

"Oh..."

Harry looked up and saw Hermione's crestfallen expression. Heaving a sigh, he stood. "It's alright, 'Mione, _I'll_ go and find somewhere else to sit, and you can stay here with Ron and them," he told her, and, before she could protest, he pushed past her and resisted the urge to slam the door after him.

_Sirius_. Harry shuddered involuntarily. Sirius seemed to haunt his very thoughts, constantly coming up on his mind. If he could only stop thinking of him... Wandering the halls, Harry looked in various compartments. Every single one was full, so far. He didn't exactly mind, but even so, he muttered, "If this goes on, I'll have to sit on the floor of a compartment."

"What was that, Potter?" Harry recognized the voice at once and groaned. He had unconsciously paused in front of Draco Malfoy's compartment.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" he snarled, and even Harry was a little surprised by the bitterness he heard in his own voice. Then again, it was _Malfoy_ he was talking to. Malfoy, whose own father had attempted to kill Harry so many times in the Department of Mysteries, only months ago. Malfoy, with his arrogance, conceit, and pure malice. Malfoy, Harry's archenemy since his first year at Hogwarts.

"Just contemplating why the savior of our world is wandering the halls as though lost," Malfoy smirked. Harry grimaced and met Malfoy's eyes— cold and steely, shadowed over with darkness. The coldest color of gray possible. But there was something wrong...

For as long as Harry had known Malfoy, the blond boy's eyes were penetrating, and at the same time passionate— when he insulted Harry, his eyes would fill with a sort of fire. But now Harry looked at Malfoy, and saw that the cold depths of the boy's eyes were vacant, inexpressive— the only expression they showed was an extreme weariness.

Harry shifted his attention from his archenemy's eyes. Malfoy's hair, pale and silvery, was not slicked back with gel, as it usually was—rather, it was now long enough to be tied back at the nape of his neck.

_Lucius_. Harry's eyes narrowed as he realized just how much Malfoy looked like his father now. His face was twisted in the usual Malfoy sneer, and with his hair tied back now... Harry shut his eyes in disgust, opened them once more, and then looked back into Malfoy's compartment. It was almost empty, with only Crabbe and Goyle to accompany him.

"So we're lost, are we now, Potter?" Malfoy snickered. But the insulting tone was not as fierce as it had been previous years— "Grieving, are we now, over your godfather?"

Harry's fervent anger must have showed, somehow, because of the slightly surprised look that crossed Malfoy's face. Harry, his heart pounding furiously, stomped into Malfoy's compartment and sat across from him. "What the _hell_—"Malfoy began.

"All the other are full," Harry muttered, not meeting Malfoy's eyes. Fury was still coursing through his veins, and he knew for a fact that looking at Malfoy would only fuel his anger.

The train ride to Hogwarts seemed much longer then usual.  
  
(Draco Malfoy's POV)  
  
I had never seen him display such anger before in my life.

I was surprised to begin with when I had first seen Potter at the open door of my compartment, and even more when I met his eyes for the first time since last school year. He was different. When I mentioned his godfather his eyes darkened, if possible, and filled with an intense fury— such passion I would not have expected from Potter. But it was more then that. Much more. Behind that anger there was an unmistakable sadness, almost guilt. At first I couldn't understand what it had to do with his godfather, until it came to me. The boy thought it was his fault his godfather, perhaps the only remaining link between he and his parents, was dead.

I didn't _mean_ to make the guilt appear on his face, in his eyes— I've made a point of tormenting him every chance I get, but even so--- I don't know why I bother about Potter. For the longest time he's been the bane of my existence— honestly, he managed to land Father in prison.

But then I think back to that time in Madam Malkin's, the first time I ever met that boy... I suppose I felt bad for him. There he was, obviously on the unwealthy side, in baggy, rather unfashionable clothing, almost timid— I was only being kind, or as kind as a Malfoy may be, by making conversation with him. It was an _honor_ for a Malfoy to talk to you. He was going to Hogwarts as well, and I suppose I thought I could mold him into a sort of follower for me. Who would not want to be behind a Malfoy?

But, despite what I considered shyness, as I spoke to him, I could see the obvious dislike in those shockingly emerald eyes of his— and perhaps I should have given up there.

It was to my ultimate shock when I realized who this boy really was— he was not someone I could sculpt to my liking, but none other then the Boy Who Lived, the boy who had defeated the Dark Lord. It just so happened that Father had urged me to befriend Potter, with the knowledge that being on such a famous boy's good side would bring me higher up in status.

Malfoy's are never rejected. I still don't know what came over Potter when he decided to deny my offer of friendship. Who in their right mind would refuse such an proposal? But, then and there, I decided that I would make the life of the boy who had rejected me hell.

At the rise of the Dark Lord, of course, Father decided against the idea of befriending Potter, which was lucky. I was perfectly content in insulting him any chance I had. The price to pay for rejecting a Malfoy. But then, at the end of the fourth year, everything changed. The sight of Potter, stumbling with Diggory's dead body in his arms, was too much. Even I could not wish that upon Potter, I could not help it. I almost considered befriending the boy— until I remembered that I was a Malfoy, and he was my archenemy. And then I came close to that decision again when he had, in his fifth year, writing about it in the Quibbler— trying to make everyone see what had happened—what was happening.

Of course most of the Slytherins knew the truth. Many of us have parents who are Death Eaters— now in Azkaban, of course—and we would laugh at the gullibility of some of the Ministry fools. But, of course, we had no wish that they come to know the truth.

Now that everyone _does_ know the truth, I know it isn't long before the Dark Lord attacks again. I also know, as a fact, that there will be another mass breakout from Azkaban soon.

I can only hope that when it happens, the Boy Who Lived will be ready.  
  
(End of Draco Malfoy's POV)  
  
Harry caught up with Ron and Hermione as they slowly walked to the Thestral- pulled carriages. Rain pounded against the cobblestone path that led to Hogwarts, leaving Harry feeling number then he had felt in the first place.  
  
"So you found another compartment, mate?" Ron inquired of Harry as they climbed into the warmth of one of the carriages. Harry sank down into the cushioned seats, obviously exhausted.

"Wh— oh, right," he replied quickly, nodding at Ron. Remembering Malfoy, Harry scowled. "Malfoy's compartment was the only one with a space," he told his friends.

"You're joking!" Ron was, understandably, outraged. For years Malfoy had tormented he and his friends, and Ron was not a forgiving person. "The bloody git. Did he bother you, Harry, 'cause if he did, I'll— I'll—" Ron trailed off, falling silent as his temper slowly cooled down.

"Oh, Ron, don't talk like that," Hermione rolled her eyes and glanced sideways at Harry. "I know, I know— we all dislike Malfoy strongly— I know he's not the nicest person..."

"Oh, is that it, 'Mione, he's 'not the nicest person', huh? That's it?" Ron fell into huffy silence once more. Hermione noticed that Harry was oddly silent. She turned to him and saw his dark eyes staring off into the stormy night, deep in thought. For perhaps a moment she saw pain in his eyes, for just a moment— but then it passed and his face was unreadable, and she promptly forgot she had seen anything at all.

"So, Harry," Hermione decided to engage him in conversation, "How many passing OWL's did you receive?"

Harry blinked as though coming out of a reverie, and then realized that Hermione had spoken. "Oh, er— nine, I think."

Ron's head whipped around and he stared at Harry openly. "You git!" he exclaimed playfully, "I got six! Mum was ready to kill me an' all. I think I'll stay at Hogwart's for the holidays."

Hermione nodded. "Oh, Ron, it's not so bad. Fred and George got three of them each, remember?"

"Yeah, I thought Mum'd disown them for sure..."

As Hermione and Ron chatted on about Fred and George, Harry lapsed into silence, his attention wandering. His eyes looked back into the dark, cloudy sky from which rain splattered onto the windows of the carriage, and his thoughts strayed to Sirius, which Malfoy had been so tactful to mention. Grateful for the change of thought, he seized Malfoy as an excuse to not think about Sirius. Malfoy...  
  
(Harry Potter's POV)  
  
I will never dislike anyone more then I dislike Draco Malfoy.

I honestly don't understand why he feels the need to make my life Hell— what did I do to him? Of course, ever since I met him at Madam Malkin's, I could see his personality was not one I would want to deal with— haughty, disdainful— everything I dislike about him.

He thinks it's easy being Harry Potter. He thinks I enjoy the attention— when it's good attention, at least. Did he consider thinking about the times the bloody Prophet has slipped in a few snide remarks about me every few days last year? How the Prophet, when proved wrong by Dumbledore, instantly changed its opinion on me and my sanity, as though it did not matter that it had been insulting me for at least a year? As though it could erase everything it had said, every lie it had told, just by one or two articles?

No, Malfoy is wrong. It is not easy being Harry Potter, a boy who many people have varied opinions on. Some may look up to me, others may hate me— either way it's the attention I despise.

I don't deserve to be famous. Sirius... Sirius would be alive if it weren't for my '_saving people thing'_ as 'Mione would put it.

I don't deserve to be the Boy Who Lived.

Malfoy would never, never know.

But, despite my loathing for this boy, this future Death Eater, I cannot help but wonder what has changed him so much, over the summer. I had never seen him like that before— his eyes so empty— so void of any emotion— was it his father in prison that had changed him? But it couldn't be, because surely he does not admire his father— and anyway, if he does, surely his father will break out of Azkaban soon enough, because of Voldemort's gaining trust of the Dementors.

Malfoy should be happy. He has everything he could ever want, and even if he does not, he would not know it, considering his arrogance. He is practically rolling in money, come his birthday he will receive his Dark Mark, and join his father in their slavery to Voldemort— is that not what he wants? And then he will be with all of his Slytherin friends, all Death Eaters, and torture Muggles, and Muggle-borns, and do all of the awful things that Death Eaters do in their spare time. All of the awful things that Voldemort does in his spare time. Surely Malfoy looks forward to this.  
  
Then why is he not happy? I know that Voldemort is gaining power. I can sense it— my scar certainly warns me of it— and, though my strange dreams have ceased for the time being, I know it will not be long until I have to start up Occlumency lessons once more. As long as Professor Snape does not teach me it, I'll be content. Of course, Dumbledore wouldn't be much better— considering he treats me like a child, and might even be using me as a weapon against Voldemort. For I know that Voldemort is planning an attack very, very soon.  
  
I can only hope that when it happens, I'll be ready.


	2. Two!

Disclaimer: i don't own anything!

Authors Note: thanx for your reviews, i was thinking of not continueing the story if nobody reviewed or anything... but yeah, now for the second chapter...

**CHAPTER TWO**  
  
"Wow, you're Harry Potter, aren't you?"

Harry blinked back rain from his eyes. He had only just stepped out of the Thestral-drawn carriages, as though in a daze, and had been trying— in vain— to block out the sounds of Ron and Hermione's pointless bickering. He had been spacing out when the voice had spoken, and now he looked down, expecting a wide-eyed first year to be there. Instead, he saw a girl around his age.

His jaw nearly dropped in shock. Her hair fell about her face freely, deep, fiery red— her slanted eyes were a gleaming emerald color, so startlingly green, so like his own. He knew that hair. He knew those eyes. It was a girl that he had seen before— a girl he had seen in Snape's Pensieve, a girl that had been glaring fiercely at his father, defending Snape himself...

"Wh-what?" he stammered, realizing she had spoken to him as his mind got carried away. Of course it wasn't his mother, he thought, though this girl was the spitting image of her. His mother was dead, Harry reminded himself. _Dead_.

"I said," the girl repeated, exasperated, "It's nice to meet you. The famous Boy Who Lived, huh?"

Harry flinched. "Yeah, so who are you?" he asked, rather rudely, to the girl who reminded him so much of Lily Evans.

"Jenny, Jenny Fudge," she replied with a shrug. Her hair swayed in front of her eyes as she shrugged, and she tossed it back in a way that it seemed almost graceful. "I just came here, transferred from Beauxbatons. I'm going into my sixth year— like you, right?— though I expect I'll be sorted with the first years."

"Right," Harry agreed half-heartedly. _Fudge_. Her last name was Fudge.

Then Jenny lowered her voice, and went on in a rather gossipy tone, "Y'see, I didn't go to Hogwarts before 'cause Father didn't think it was a good idea. Y'know, he's the former Minister of Magic, though he's resigned and everything. Well, he never really liked Dumbledore, only his advice. Now he's depending on Dumbledore, now he knows that You-Know-Who's back and all."

Harry nodded absently, then suddenly froze. "Hold on— Fudge resigned?" he demanded, suddenly interested.

"Yeah, I thought it was in the Prophet—"

Just then, Ron and Hermione ceased their quarreling long enough to notice Jenny. Ron quickly moved over to Jenny, a rather foolish grin spreading across his face. "Hi," he introduced himself, "I'm Ron Weasley."

"Jenny Fudge," she replied briskly.

The grin slid from his face. "Meaning you're the Minister's daughter?" he asked nastily, shooting her a rather venomous look.

"Right..."

Harry's attention drifted off once more, and he ignored Ron, Hermione and Jenny as they compared Beauxbatons and Hogwarts, at the same time walking to the Hogwarts entrance. Harry could not help but gaze at the other groups of people walking towards the castle as well— his eyes lingered particularly long on Malfoy, in between Crabbe and Goyle, who were all ahead of Harry. Malfoy seemed to feel him staring, and turned to meet Harry's eyes for a brief second.

It was only a single moment, but it surprised Harry greatly. The look Malfoy gave him was not spiteful, but rather calculating, and Harry didn't know what to make of it. He shook himself, throwing Malfoy from his thoughts, and turned back to his friends.

Ron was saying, "Well, you don't look like him, at least," and Harry glanced back at him just in time to see Hermione elbow him, as though to punish him for his manners. Harry realized that they must have been discussing Fudge.

"Well, I suppose I am glad I didn't take after him," Jenny admitted shamelessly. She shook back her long dark hair once more, which caught the light of the gleaming, opalescent eyes of the Thestrals. "Oh, look at those horse-dragon things," she remarked vaguely.

"So who've you seen killed?" Ron asked rather bluntly, and Hermione glared at him for being so tactless.

"Killed?" Jenny asked, rather sharply. "I've never kil— never seen anyone killed."

"You must have, if you can see the Thestrals. You can only see them if you've witnessed someone dying," Hermione informed the redhead.

"I've never seen anyone killed, not ever, who would I have seen killed in the first place—?" Jenny insisted, stumbling over her words a bit.

"I could've been when you were really young, so you wouldn't remember it," Hermione suggested reassuringly. Jenny instantly seized upon the idea.

Meanwhile, Harry looked away again, and found his thoughts returning to Malfoy, even as they walked into the Great Hall. Harry, Ron and Hermione wandered over to the Gryffindor table, and watched Fudge's daughter walk after the first years.

Professor McGonagall pulled out a long roll of parchment, readjusted her thin silver glasses, and began to read names off it in alphabetical order. "Anderson, Kyle," she announced first, and a small, terrified sandy-haired first year walked up to the hat. The moment the hat touched his head, it shrieked, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

_Sirius_. Harry would never stop thinking about him. Now that he thought of it, he realized it was almost pointless to try avoiding the thoughts that invaded his mind. But— every time the name came to mind, dread filled his heart. Every time someone comforted him about Sirius, he felt he knew that they really blamed him for it— it was all his fault, all of his foolishness, his need to save people that had killed Sirius.

It was all his fault.

"Endes, Lila," was being sorted into "GRYFFINDOR!", and Harry snapped back to reality to applaud her dully. McGonagall consulted her list, and said, "Fudge, Jennifer!"

Harry watched Jenny flick back her hair and saunter up to the hat, jamming it on her head with an air of extreme indolence. She gazed haughtily around, and listened to the hat's muttering in her ear.

'_Certainly not a Gryffindor, nor a Hufflepuff— Slytherin all the way, though also a few Ravenclaw qualities_—'

"Ravenclaw, then," Jenny said aloud.

'_No, no_,' the hat insisted, '_your Slytherin qualities are much, much stronger... I'm afraid I'll have to put you in_—'

"Ravenclaw!" Jenny said angrily. She could not be in Slytherin— not because it was a bad house. In fact, she would have loved to be in Slytherin any other time. But now... she had her reasons... and she could not be in Slytherin.

'_Well, I suppose I have no choice but to place you in—_ RAVENCLAW!'

The last part the hat screeched out loud, and Jenny let out a sigh of relief. It would have been so much easier had she been sorted in Gryffindor, but Ravenclaw would do the job.

She meandered back down to the Ravenclaw table, and sat down between two girls. One was an annoyingly pretty dark-haired girl and the other a girl with short, curly hair.

"Hi." Jenny put on a falsely bright smile. "I'm Jenny."

"Cho Chang," the dark-haired one smiled back. Her hair was very glossy, pulled back in a ponytail. "So, you related to the Minister?"

"Wh— oh, right. I'm not anything like my Father, though, I assure you. Right now, I'm hoping that I'm adopted."

Cho seemed to accept this answer. "Adopted? I thought that Rita Skeeter woman wrote an article about all of Fudge's kids being adopted. She's known for making up rumors, of course, so I'm not sure."

"Well, I hope this one isn't a rumor," Jenny forced herself to laugh, though she found nothing remotely funny about it. Cho giggled at that, an extremely girlish giggle that made Jenny want to gag— but she had to make friends, she had her... reasons.

"So, this is Marietta. She's one of my best friends," Cho smiled. The girl with curly hair looked up coldly. "My parents used to work for your dad, but they think he's a fool," she told Jenny sharply, her voice edged with anger. Cho shot an apologetic look towards Jenny, then talked quietly with her friend. Jenny rolled her eyes to herself and got up to sit somewhere else at the Ravenclaw table.

Soon, she found herself sitting adjacent to a girl with straggly, dirty- blonde hair. Her wand was tucked behind her ear, and around her throat she had strung a necklace of butterbeer caps. "Er— hello," Jenny said uncertainly.

The girl seemed startled out of a sort of trance, and turned her pale eyes to Cassie. "Hello," she returned in a soft voice.

"Jenny Fudge," she introduced herself.

"Luna Lovegood. I don't think much of your father. Daddy says that he was going to ban the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. I'm glad he resigned."

"Oh. Well," Jenny bit her lip, to hold back uneasy laughter. Clearly, this girl was not in her right mind. Jenny decided she was not the right sort to befriend. "Is that really a — er—"

"Yes, the Crumple-Horned Snorkack!" Luna repeated impatiently, shaking back her waist-length hair.

"How does your father know?" Jenny asked, still on the verge of laughing.

"Daddy knows a lot. He's the editor of The Quibbler." Luna sounded very pleased with herself as she said this, and Jenny snorted.

"How— nice. Well, I'd better be going, becau—" Jenny was cut off as Luna happily shoved an edition of The Quibbler into her hand, ordering her to read it. Jenny's regrets of sitting next to the pale-eyed girl doubled. She skimmed through the strangest articles she had yet to see, featuring more of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack and the Blibbering Humdinger. Jenny sighed with relief when Dumbledore stood and announced that the Feast would begin.

Meanwhile, Ron and Hermione chatted cheerfully.

"I don't understand why Fudge would choose now, of all times, to send his daughter to Hogwarts." Hermione glanced at Ron, running her fingers through her sleek curls that she had managed to tame. Her eyes became very serious for a moment, and then brightened a little.

"Mafbe ee 'anted 'oo maf uf wid Dumfldor," Ron guessed through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Hermione's eyebrows raised.

"Make up with Dumbledore? I'm not so sure. He certainly believes Dumbledore now, but that doesn't mean that he likes him. He was put in a very embarrassing position, having to admit finally that Dumbledore was right. I wonder if that's why he resigned..."

Ron shrugged, refilling his plate. Hermione reluctantly looked at the food that she decided interfered with her SPEW campaign, but took a small bit of chicken and nibbled on it tentatively.

"Oh, pleasant," Hermione suddenly said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "Double Potions with the Slytherins, Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws, and then Double DADA with the Slytherins again."

Ron started to speak, decided against it, swallowed, and then said, "Well, who's the DADA teacher? No one new is here..."

"Ugh, don't you listen, Ron? That's because it's Trelawny!"

"What?!" Ron spat out a mouthful of pudding. "Trelawny, a teacher! What does she know about DADA?! Anyway, her and Snape in one day! And then, look, History after that— I can't stand Binns. Harry, isn't it awful?" Ron glanced over at his friend for the first time.

Harry blinked, looked up, and replied, "Oh— right, yeah. Awful," though he had only a vague idea of what Ron was talking about. Ron was about to say more when Hermione grabbed his arm.

"Ron, we're Prefects! We've got to show the first years the way to the Common Room and the dorms!"

The two of them hurried off to help the first years find their way. Harry stared after them, then followed. He passed Cho Chang and her giggling circle of friends, ignoring them as best as he could. This was, however, easier said than done. Cho went very red when she caught sight of him, but gave him a very small smile. He looked away, almost angrily. Everything that had been between he and Cho was over.

"Still gloating over having landed my father in Azkaban, Potter?" asked a mocking voice behind him. Harry grimaced, not even bothering to turn; he knew very well who it was. Pulling out his wand and turning in one fluid moment, he faced Draco Malfoy warily.

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

For what seemed like the very first time to Harry, Malfoy seemed at a loss for words. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then finally seemed to snap back to reality, and snarled, "Oh, just checking on you to see if you've been hallucinating lately— what, is daydreaming about your dead godfather taking up too much time?"

Harry's eyes burned with hatred, and in seconds, his wand was pointing straight at Malfoy's heart. Even so, he found he could not think of a curse deadly enough for Malfoy— his brain had froze, his loathing for that boy taking up all of his thoughts. His wand fell to the floor, clattering against the stone— he shoved Malfoy against the cold wall, and their faces were inches apart.

"Don't ever talk about Sirius that way," he hissed, his eyes still alive with anger, so dark they were more black then emerald.

"Are you going to kill me, Potter?" Malfoy whispered teasingly, uncomfortably aware of Harry's hot breath on his face, and his arms that touched his where he was pinning him to the wall. Harry bit his lip so hard he winced, in an attempt to not retort. His attempt failed.

"You're a disgusting excuse for a wizard, Malfoy— mocking Sirius's honor that way, you don't deserve to live."

Malfoy allowed a smirk to cross his face, and, without another word, he shot Harry a last, fleeting look, escaped from his grasp, and walked away.  
  
(Harry Potter's POV)  
  
It was that look again.

I stood there for a while, where Malfoy had just left, and leaned against the wall, deep in thought. I suppose I'm almost used to it by now, because it is the only one Malfoy has given me yet this school year. That scrutinizing, contemplating look— I don't understand it. Something about it gives me the excuse to think of my archenemy for hours at a time.

He _is_ different. Still insulting, infuriating— but more mature, at the same time. As though the summer has changed him greatly. I honestly can't explain it. But not only in that way, of course— physically, also. His growing resemblance to his father is unnerving, and when I looked into his eyes only seconds ago, I half expected to see Lucius's eyes staring back at me, like they had through his Death Eater mask last summer. But it wasn't Lucius's eyes I saw. It was his.

And I realized then that, no matter how much Malfoy looked like his father, what with his hair, his skin, his body— his eyes would never be Lucius's. They would always be his own.

I shook myself from my thoughts, and looked around. It was dark already. Not exactly paying attention to where I was going, I wandered aimlessly down the hall, having a vague feeling that I'd make it to the Great Hall. Perhaps I could visit Hagrid, in his hut.

All students, of whatever year, were supposed to be in their house Common Rooms by then. I was fully aware that if a prefect or teacher found me, it would mean house point deductions, or even detention. I didn't care.  
  
(End of Harry Potter's POV)  
  
And, meanwhile, as Harry randomly strayed across the Hogwarts halls, Jennifer Fudge laughed to herself in the Ravenclaw sixth year dorms, with the feeling that everything was going according to plan so far.


End file.
